Today, Adrienne took me to the TwoBird Cafe for breakfast, and we celebrated by buying a cheese scone and orange juice in addition to our usual breakfast. We’re wild.

I found a wrapped present on the kitchen table, apparently from my children, Tulip the dog, and Percy the cat. Unwrapped it, I discovered a bright red bowl, labled “Complimentary Cereal Bowl”, and around the inner rim bearing the legend: “You’re the man! You’re handsome. You’re strong. You’re charming.” I know that’s going over the top, just a little, but after all, they’re just animals and cannot be expected to comprehend the subtleties of our language.

I asked Adrienne where she’d found it.

She’d bought it back around Mother’s Day, from the Great Acorn store in San Anselmo. On display was a red one and and yellow one. Adrienne wanted blue or green. The proprietor lady offered to order it. Adrienne decided not to wait.

“No,” she said, “I’d better buy the red one. It’s for Father’s Day.” The lady proprietor seemed alarmed.

“Father’s Day?” she asked, “That’s months away!”

“I know,” Adrienne said. “But when I see something I want, I just get it.”

You go, girl!

The practice of bloggistry changes the mind.

This April, just experimenting, I started a kind of tech diary. On blank days, it seemed natural to think about some ‘Looky Back’ days from the past. Over the weeks, I wrote several of these. These stories were so short that I called them ‘micro-stories’. Or, when posting an opinion — like this one — a ‘micro-essay’.

One day, I noticed that these micro-stories and micro-essays are the real deal. In comparison, the tech notes are bland and uninteresting. I began writing more micro-stories, and replaced most of the tech notes.

I discoverd that writing micro-stories changes the mind. Writing them brings up jewels, moments of the past to burnish, shining again, no longer lost. A treasure chest.

They say that it steam-engines at steam-engine time. I suppose bloggistry has now appeared in our world because its time has come. I suppose that the “autoblography” is a natural expression of bloggistry. Evolution is a funny thing — invisible before, inevitable after.

I for one am grateful.

Santa Monica Municipal Airport, California, 1969:

From the air as you make a final turn and approach toward the runway, ahead and off to the south you look down upon an airfield belonging to Howard Hughes. Sometimes, just outside the mammoth hangar doors, we could see the Spruce Goose, that famous airplane made from wood.

But this story really begins three years earlier, in Dallas. My friends Tony and Marilyn, and John C. were all intrigued with psychedelics. On John’s millionaire family estate, in the cabana behind the pool, we strung up bedsheets over the glass windows, and made a light show.

We were having a great time before the police came.

You need a projector, the kind that lecturers use, with a lighted table and a lens above. First, you mix oil and water, with food-coloring added. Next, you need a couple of shallow clear-glass bowls. Place one bowl on the light table, add some of the colored oil and water mixture, and then you lower the upper bowl into this mixture.

By rocking the bowls, you will see globs of flowing colored shapes projected on the screen, in this case the bedsheets we’d hung up over the glass windows. Of course, it’s best to have very loud rock music going, to get the full effect.

Because the music was so loud, we didn’t hear the police and fire department knocking, and only dimly became aware that the bedsheets were also strobing with the red flash of the firetruck lights outside.

John C. did most of the talking. The rest of us were disinclined to chat just at the moment. It seems that neighbors, seeing the flickering red and yellow on the bedsheets had thought the house aflame and called the fire department to save us. The firemen, John reported, were grousing, being called out to extinguish a light show.

On other occasions we all hung out, blasted off, and read Timothy Leary’s version of Tibetan Book of the Dead. Some of this was at my apartment with the little swimming pool, on Gillespie street near Lemmon and Oak Lawn. There I had a tiny card on my mail box. It said ‘Brain Wave Laboratory.’ Brain Wave Laboratory received no mail other than a subscription to the Haight Ashbury Light, an odd newspaper from far away.

The best way to obtain the psychedelics was to send Crazy Becky to San Francisco. She had a knack. Sometimes she could find them without even leaving the San Francisco Airport, and she’d turn around and fly back.

On this particular night of Timothy Leary, along toward morning they’d all gone, and I attempted to take a shower. It was very difficult. Perhaps due to my tired state, the ground and the walls kept oozing and heaving, as if the wall had turned to balloons being inflated and deflated. Kind of odd. I lay in the bottom of the tub with the shower stream coming at me for a few years. You know, just puttering around the house till I got sleepy.

But by the time I left Dallas, I was straight, studying Scientology which actually turned out useful, though I became a jerk for a while. Really not the fault of the Scientologists. It just came out, honest.

From there I moved to St. Louis, then to England, and finally to Los Angeles, all studying the far-out world of Ron Hubbard, an amazing man. I met him on a ship in the harbor of Valencia. “Hi,” he said, “How ya doin?”

But I digress. In Los Angeles I began the flying lessons. Santa Monica airport sits beside the ocean. With the instructor, when you take the Cessna up, you rise above the smog layer, and the flightpath takes you out over the ocean, then practice with the controls, then back along a large rectangle in the sky, lower on each turn, hopefully to float just above the runway, and gently lower down without bouncing all over the place.

The motor is loud, the flight check serious, and I never did learn how to recover from a stall. But the instructor, a crewcut ex-military fellow living at the end of his patience, said I was ready to solo.

I’d done touch-and-go’s pretty well. This is where you land but then immediately take off again. Because, if you think about it. landing properly is the most important thing you learn. Can’t land the plane? Definitely a problem.

So, heart in my throat, I clicked down the clipboard for the flight check, and then had no excuse to delay further. My instructor was in the control tower, and I spoke with them on the radio. Cleared for take off.

Picking up speed now, the Cessna’s nose lifting, and- I’m flying the airplane! I’m flying the airplane! Wow! Wow! I’m flying the airplane!

Ok, calm down now. Gaining altitude now. To gain altitude, you increase the power. You push the throttle knob, this speeds up the engine, and you go higher. You adjust your speed with the wheel, by pulling toward your chest or pushing it away from you. If you push it, the nose drops, and you go faster. Pull it, the nose rises, and you slow down. But don’t pull it too much. Too slow, and the airplane stops flying. It stalls.

That means it suddenly slips to one side or the other, and all quickly the entire windscreen is filled with the ground, which rotates before you, way too fast.

I didn’t want that to happen. It would be … bad.

But this was to be an easy once-around. I’d take off, gain altitude, make two left turns, lose some altitude, make two left turns, and land.

Except that, while landing, I did the wrong thing. I was too excited. I shoved the throttle, and did a touch-and-go. This turned out to be a problem because the control tower already had a small jet in the pattern, and so I came up upon it. At the time I didn’t realize it was small; it looked big. And big jets can mean sudden death to small planes, because the spinning air rushing from the tips of huge wings can completely flip your airplane. And it was dead ahead.

I started furiously wagging my tail. It’s a way to slow a plane by making it tack right and left. You turn the wheel left and press the left pedal, and then reverse. It makes the plane go slow, wagging its tail. The jet, being a jet, moved ahead quickly out of my way.

The control tower patiently routed the other incoming traffic around the imbecile — moi? — and I started making left turns to come in for my final approach. And then, by chance, I looked out my left window at the ground.

Have you ever heard of psychedelic flashback? It means that some remnant of old crap in your system, even years later, can cause you to start tripping again.

Well, the ground — all the way to Burbank — was heaving and bubbling, as far as I could see. I’d never had a flashback, but I recognized it now.

Sternly, I told myself, “Right now … is not the time.”

Slowly, the ground below flattened out again. The runway ahead beckoned.

The Cessna floated gently to the ground.

San Francisco, 1976: On Geary Boulevard not far from my apartment, you could see the sign: Emily’s Hot Tubs, Sauna, and Massage.

At that time, I’d placed my Yellow Page advertising; I’d installed a phone. That September, when the phone book came out, I was in the Answering Service business. In fact, I was very much in the Answering Service business, because I was the only operator, 6 am to midnight, seven days a week.

I’d started this business in my studio apartment on Third Avenue, so the commute was less than ten feet. From my pallet on the floor I’d rise at six, turn on the phones, then snooze till the first calls. Then, coffee-time and up to speed!

Business was slow enough for baths and breaks, lunch and dinner. And I’d planned ahead.

Before the answering service began, my Thumbtack Bugle postering had been entrusted to hired motorcyclists, and I’d hired Bob to spell me on the phones.

When he arrived mid afternoon, I pedaled off to the grocery store. My bike had an aluminum swiss rack over the back wheel, and a net bag to fill up with groceries. I had a system, and three hours was plenty of time for shopping.

Sometimes there was time for Emily’s Hot Tubs. Their storefront, the first floor of a Victorian, was long and narrow. They advertised massage, but I just wanted to steam and soak. Afternoons were quiet, with the ubiquitous Kitaro music floating from the ceiling.

Then back to work. At first it was easy running the Bugle and answering phones. Time for puttering around the apartment, and playing with Rosie the Cat. I made up a cardboard box with a label that said “Cat Territory”, because she liked to retreat when there were strangers around.

As more clients signed on, less puttering time found me busy all day long. Bob’s hours extended, and we began working as a team during the busy times. It was fun, and at the time, it seemed important, meaningful. Rosie and I had to visit in the evenings.

Rosie was the co-founder; we were great pals for many years. She was always very humble, and never took on airs.

Network Answering Service got hectic, and then we were learning about payroll forms, interviewing, and training operators. I had to move out, and found a room up the street. Every morning I’d start awake at six o’clock, worrying about the answering service. I’d call, and Sally or somebody would answer. But one morning, no answer.

I dressed, and ran all the way. Sally was sitting with a book. “Why aren’t you answering the phone?” I asked.

“It’s the funniest thing,” she said. “There hasn’t been a call all morning.”

I asked what she’d done when she came in. She said nothing. I pressed for details. She said she’d opened the phones as usual. Nothing else?

“I made some toast,” she said.

In the kitchen, I discovered the problem: she’d unplugged the telephone system to plug in a toaster. When I powered up the phone system, by golly, there were the calls!

Such things made me tense. That night, I decided to go to Emily’s Hot Tubs. I’d never been in the evening. I’d get a massage. That should be relaxing.

They led me into a room. I peeled off my outer garments and stretched out on the massage table. A tall brunette, with hair piled high and pinned with a pearl-inset comb, entered the room. She was wearing a tight red dress, and high-heeled shoes. I looked her in the eye.

“I’ve come for a massage,” I said slowly. “No panky. No hanky.”

She smiled faintly, and turned to depart. “I’ll get Cathy,” she said.

Near Picadilly Circus, London, 1968: I parked my Austin Mini and we got out, on our way to Carnaby Street. Sharon and I, plus Ron David McCoy and his wife.

His name really wasn’t Ron David, but when I met him in Dallas, he worked as D.J. on the local rock station, which insisted that each D.J. be named David. So Ron McCoy became Ron David McCoy. I visited his control room while he spun chatter and platters with a rapid-fire style I found amazing. Good-humored, a skinny guy with Elvis hair, and a baby-doll wife, a real looker.

The McCoys were fun, too. But I was shivering.

The wind whistled up Carnaby Street, and I’d come with no coat. The girls were bundled up, and Ron David had a long trench coat which reminded me of one I’d bought at Midwestern University, years ago, charcoal-black with a subtle gold-brown check, lined, with deep pockets. I’d thought it made me look very much like Holden Caulfield.

I’d got it muddied almost at once, and thought it ruined, but took it to Ray Moore’s Cleaners in Henrietta. Ray had dry cleaned for my family all my life. Back came the trench coat, perfect. You’d think it new except for the tiny tag of cloth pinned inside with my name. I think about all the clothes over all those years, and wonder how many tiny tags Ray had made for my family, for all the families in our town. Somewhere today, in a back closet, in a junk yard, I imagine an old garment long forgotten, still with the faded tag of cloth fluttering to tell the world my name.

Me and that trench coat had travelled many miles. I wished I had it now, because I was chilling to the bone. I looked enviously at Ron David. I tried to walk faster.

The three of them were laughing and telling stories, but I was trying to remember. My trench coat should be in the house in East Grinstead, but I didn’t think so. I knew I’d brought it from Texas to St. Louis because I remember Sam putting me up for a few days, and he’d borrowed it. And then I’d packed it up again and moved to the unheated house trailer off the end of the jet runway. I’d not worn it that winter: too cold for a trench coat.

But I couldn’t remember packing it for England. Maybe I’d finally lost it. Then I had a thought, and turned to Ron.

“That’s a nice coat,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, looking down at it.

“Where did you get it?” I asked.

“Oh, I borrowed it from Sam,” he said. Aha!

“You know, Ron,” I said, “That’s my coat.”

“What are you talking about?” He stared. I nodded.

“I left it with Sam for safe-keeping,” I said, “You’re wearing my coat.” He looked indignant.

“I don’t see your name on it!” he said. Wrong answer.

“Open it up,” I said. He did.

Thank you, Ray Moore. There, near the hem, a tiny piece of cloth fluttered.

So nice to have my coat back! So nice of Ron David to bring it to me, all the way from St. Louis, and just when I needed it, too. So nice and warm, there on Carnaby street.

Online: at Haiku the Blog (now defunky), 15 March 2003:

St. Peter loses
the keys to heaven; God to
call for a locksmith.

~dayla_starr at 05:37:4